


Dozen Red Roses

by StilesBastille24



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, Explicit Language, M/M, ignoring sammi, post 5.10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 09:42:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3645618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StilesBastille24/pseuds/StilesBastille24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If you’re weird, if you’re crazy, if you’re wasted on one beer. I don’t care. It’s you, Ian. I want you, whatever way you are.” Mickey shrugged, self-deprecating, because it was pathetic to want another person that much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dozen Red Roses

Mickey winced as Ian tried to clean the blood off his face. “Probably should have washed it off with the beer at the park.”  
  
Ian laughed. “Waste of good beer, Mickey.”  
  
“Better than this shit,” Mickey grimaced as Ian scrubbed harder.  
  
“Pussy,” Ian teased, but he paused in his ministrations to kiss his boyfriend’s blood free cheek.  
  
The corner of Mickey’s mouth pulled upwards in a smirk. His boyfriend was a dumbass and nobody else on fucking planet would get away with calling Mickey a pussy but Ian had leeway for being exactly everything to Mickey. “Asshole, better clean quicker if you plan on leaving this shithole tonight for that date of yours.”  
  
Ian heeded the warning and went back to trying to sandpaper the blood from Mickey’s face. Not that Ian was in any better shape. At least Mickey didn’t have fucking blood in his hair. He reached up, fingered the crusted locks.  
  
“Wet rat, I know,” Ian commented, dodging Mickey’s hands as he rinsed the washcloth.  
  
“Fuck it, you’d make a hot rat.”  
  
Ian’s bright burst of laughter was fully worth saying stupid shit like that. Mickey grinned, hands moving to Ian’s jeans instead. “You set on going out tonight, Gallagher? Plenty of other things for us to do in an empty house. No toddlers ogling our naked relations, no teenage girls tweaking on bad rap.”  
  
Ian swayed in towards Mickey, allowing Mickey’s fingers to dip past the waist band, thumbs edging along Ian’s hips. “It’s an idea,” he said, the wash cloth plopping wetly into the sink as his hands twined themselves through Mickey’s short hair. “But –“ he licked his lip, eyes dropping down to Mickey.  
  
Mickey quirked an eyebrow, but he had an idea of what was throwing Ian and he was willing to give Ian time to sort it out himself so he said, “As in you want me to do things to your butt, cuz, I gotta say, you know I prefer it the other way round.”  
  
Ian smirked, hands tugging on Mickey’s head until he tilted it back. “Not what I meant.” He mouthed at Mickey’s jaw line, edging to the pulse point at the hinge before pulling back. “I’ve only got so long till the buzz fades then I’ll be all fucking weird again.”  
  
It took actual restraint to keep from frowning, but Mickey fucking managed because Ian didn’t need that. He needed reassurance, and Mickey had never reassured anyone in his fucking life but he was going to figure it the fuck out for Ian.  
  
“You’re not – “ he broke off, fuck. What was he supposed to say? He eyed Ian, standing above him like a fucking god, perfect body, perfect fucking everything. Asshole. He jerked hard on Ian’s hips and his boyfriend fell into his lap obligingly.  
  
“I’m not what?” Ian asked, the soft slur from drinking too much barely noticeable.  
  
“I don’t give a fuck, man,” Mickey said, pushing his hands up under Ian’s shirts to touch the smooth skin of his sides. “If you’re weird, if you’re crazy, if you’re wasted on one beer. I don’t fucking care. It’s you, Ian. I want you, whatever way you are.” He shrugged, self-deprecating, because it was pathetic to want another person that much.  
  
And maybe he couldn’t profess his fucking heart-eyes-love to Ian, face to face, but he could sure as hell tell him how much he wanted Ian, every second of every fucking day since Ian broke into his room with a fucking crowbar.  
  
Ian was watching him with his impossibly wide eyes, mouth hanging just slightly ajar, like he’d forgotten to close it when Mickey started talking. Mickey forced himself to meet his gaze because he was shit at emotional confessions, but he wanted Ian to know he fucking meant it.  
  
Then Ian was crashing against him, head colliding just below Mickey’s collar bone, body curled into a C. Mickey’s arms wound their way around his back and held tight, terrified he’d completely fucked up.  
  
“Hey, hey, Ian, come on,” he cajoled, heart fluttering somewhere in his throat. Damn he was shit at this caregiver stuff. Or maybe that was it. Ian didn’t want any of his caring. Mickey’s hands tensed on the fabric of Ian’s sweater. Jesus, just don’t let Ian run off again, Mickey would fucking chase him down to goddamn hell if that happened.  
  
Ian’s breath was hot and rapid through Mickey’s t-shirt, his hands clenched at the sides, tugging the material tight against Mickey’s torso. “Thirty to forty years,” he whispered, the words blurring together at the edges.  
  
Mickey exhaled and his heart dropped back down to where it was supposed to be. “Don’t think you’re seeing it my way,” Mickey said, keeping his voice quiet to match Ian’s. “See, cuz you heard that bitch’s words and thought, life sentence.” Ian tensed against him, Mickey dragged a hopefully soothing palm down his spine. “But that’s not what I heard, Ian, I heard thirty to forty years with you. Sitting in that shitty clinic room and this broad’s telling me I’ve got at least thirty to forty years with you, dragging you to clinics, worrying about your skinny ass, finding ways to pay for meds, and I’m thinking fuck, sign me up.”  
  
Ian huffed a breath that could be a laugh but Mickey wasn’t sure. “Even when I’m punching you in the face?”  
  
Mickey laughed, pressing his face against Ian’s. “’specially then. Got to put you in your place, Army. Before you go getting any tough guy ideas.”  
  
“And you’re not going to get – “ Ian cut off, pulling back so that their faces were aligned. “I like you the way you are, Mickey. I don’t need you coddling me just because I’m crazy now.” His eyes narrowed.  
  
“You’re not crazy now,” Mickey rolled his eyes, trying to walk that fine line of reassurance he knew fuck all about, “you were always crazy, Gallagher.”  
  
Ian’s brief laugh was surprised. “Fuck you, I was not.”  
  
Mickey hiked an eyebrow. “You came after me with a crowbar, you fucked me minutes before my wedding, don’t know what that says to you, but that says crazy to me. Batshit crazy.”  
  
Ian punched him hard in the shoulder, but the corners of his mouth quirked up. “You’re an asshole.”  
  
“And you don’t see me crying about it. So taking your fucking meds, let me worry about you because if I’m in this for thirty to forty fucking years, I have the goddamn right to worry about you.”  
  
He hoped Ian wouldn’t argue him on this, because Mickey didn’t know how to turn off worrying about Ian. He’d been worrying about Ian since the guy showed up outside his house, still covered in freckles with his boy band hair and said ‘I need to see you,’ so fuck him if he thought Mickey was just going to stop worrying now.  
  
Ian watched Mickey carefully, the way he did when he first came back home after the army-apocalypse, and like he did when Mickey visited him at the hospital. That stare that was so intense it scared Mickey how open Ian could be with his look. He was all in with that look, Ian was staring into his soul with the expectation that Mickey would bare his back.  
  
Mickey shifted uncomfortably. Ian wasn’t saying anything and it made Mickey feel wrong footed. “You tell me when my worrying bullshit bothers you and I’ll try and tone it down, how about that?”  
  
“Why do you worry?” Ian asked and he made it sound like a test.  
  
There was a reason Mickey hadn’t passed a class since freshman year and it sure as fuck wasn’t because he had stellar tests skills. He grimaced. Fucking Ian, pulling this shit all the time. Testing his loyalty or whatever, as if he didn’t get that Ian was it for Mickey, Mickey would burn the fucking world down for Ian and he didn’t get that. He came out for him, he shared his house with him, he made him part of his fucking family.  
  
“Ian. Fuck, come on. I don’t worry because I think you’re going to steal another baby or smash Debbie in the head with a baseball bat. Go ahead, I don’t care. I worry because – “ he sighed, head lolling back.  
  
Ian reached forward, hand coming to the back of Mickey’s neck and squeezing, a reassurance and a plea to look at him. Mickey subsided as he always did, because Mickey would give Ian anything.  
  
“If you’re going to steal a baby, I want to be the one you drag with you not the one you run away from. If you’re making a goddamn porno, I want it to be with me. I worry about you and your medication because I want to be with you and when you’re off it . . .” he shrugged for a second time.  
  
Ian watched him again, but his eyes were sliding all over Mickey’s face instead of staring through him. His hands pressed against Mickey’s sides, fingers bunching the fabric then slipping under it. “The meds make me feel like crap. Like nothing.”  
  
“Then we’ll find new ones,” Mickey offered.  
  
“If I don’t want to take them?”  
  
“Then I’ll beg you to,” Mickey admitted, unsure if that’s what Ian wanted to hear or not but knowing that it was the truth.  
  
Slowly, Ian nodded. “Thirty to forty years, huh?”  
  
Mickey’s eyebrow arched. “You got a problem with that?”  
  
“Forty years and I’ll be fifty-eight. You planning on dropping me for a hot new piece of ass because mine’ll be wrinkly?” And despite his best efforts, Mickey could clearly see Ian’s grin.  
  
“Fuck you,” Mickey said, shoving against his shoulder before dropping his hands to grab hard on Ian’s ass. “This ass is mine until the end of time, Gallagher. Got fucking shot twice for this ass, pistol whipped for this ass, came out for this ass. I own this ass.” He squeezed again, grinning when Ian pushed into the hold.  
  
“Didn’t think it was my ass you did that for. Was under the impression it was my big dick.”  
  
Mickey grinned wide before swooping in for a kiss, slotting their mouths together and curving their bodies against each other. Ian’s hands slid up his back to cup the back of his head while Mickey kept his firm against Ian’s ass. Their tongues slicked together, tasting of blood still from cuts that hadn’t healed and cheap beer. Mickey fucking loved it.  
  
He shifted his grip on Ian to grasp better at his thighs, pushing off hard from the plastic cover on the toilet. Ian gasped, but kept their mouths locked together, his fingers digging into the back of Mickey’s skull, refusing to release him.  
  
Not that Mickey fucking wanted him to. He carried Ian into the permanently overcrowded bedroom that was now blissfully empty and dumped his boyfriend onto his single mattress. They were seriously going to need to upgrade that shit to at least a full if Mickey was going to keep staying at the Gallagher residence.  
  
“No Sizzler?” Ian asked, already moving to tug his shirt off, careful of his bandaged hand.  
  
“You want to?” Mickey asked, because even though he’d much rather fuck, he’d still go if that’s what Ian wanted.  
  
“Fuck it. We can go tomorrow, when I’m weird and shit. And you can moo at me and get us kicked out of the restaurant for being too lame to be seen in public.” Ian’s grin was blinding as he shimmied out of his jeans.  
  
“Bullshit!” Mickey crowed, tossing his shirt to the ground before kicking out of his pants. “I am not fucking lame, Gallagher. I was not the one putting my lame ass hand up on the glass a juvie.”  
  
“Did you ever end up stabbing that guy over the jello?” Ian asked, grabbing Mickey by the hips and tugging him hastily down onto the bed, rolling over top of him so that they were chest to chest.  
  
“Nah, held myself back, just started spitting in the jello before he took it.” Mickey smirked proudly.  
  
“Shit! Mickey!” Ian laughed, falling forward on Mickey, his dick pressing against the inseam of Mickey’s groin.  
  
“We gonna talk about my thug life or you gonna get in me?” Mickey teased, hands roaming down to grope Ian’s ass. It was a great ass. Not as great as Ian’s dick, but hot damn, a great ass.  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I’m going to get in you and tomorrow you’re going to take me on a date. With nice clothes, and hand holding, and paying for shit.” Ian leaned forward, pressing his lips to Mickey’s.  
  
“Need me to bring you some flowers too?”  
  
“Yeah,” Ian nodded, lips trailing down to Mickey’s collar bone. “Fucking dozen red roses.”  
  
“You got it,” Mickey promised, arching up against him. “Dozen red roses for assface.”


End file.
